


old but not terrible collection

by thomringo



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 14:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomringo/pseuds/thomringo
Summary: anything from a year+ ago that i dont hate yet





	1. bezfish 01

Their captive, Fish thinks, is a terribly ugly young man. He’s the mousy, thin-faced sort of person her parents had tried desperately to wed her off to, despite how offensive suitors always found her to be. He seems no different from any other pompous, high society man, which is to say he must be completely and utterly boring. Yet, she can’t help her piqued interest.

Her eyes are glued to him, watching as Bez throws him unceremoniously below deck, bound and screaming. It’s all just too exciting. A captive means trouble and who is she to shy away from trouble?

She stands by his cell, morning and night, until her feet ache, though she knows Bez would much prefer she didn’t. She tells him stories, tales of a young woman named Fisher kidnapped by fearsome pirates, forced to answer to the captain’s every whim. The right words will convince him, she knows, and she’s very good at finding the right words.

He says nothing for himself, not with the gag stuffed tightly in his mouth, but his eyes soften at the sight of her, and that says enough. He thinks her a friend, stuck in the same sorry state he is, only with prettier shackles.

Over the next few days, he sits up straighter when she bounds down the steps, a puppy eager for her attention, and she grows somehow fonder. Her pet. 

“The two of us would make a handsome couple,” she says one night, tangled up in bed. She’s doesn’t even have to say who, not when the hand Bez has curled around her waist tightens. Butterflies flutter in Fish’s lungs, always dancing when she feels loved. “His doublet is the same color as my family’s crest, you know, my parents would beg him to marry me.”

Truth be told, she’s fairly certain her family doesn’t have a crest of any sort. If they do, she hasn’t seen it, but she likes the way Bez growls in her ear too much not to push it.

Fish imagines hanging off the captive’s arm, laughing daintily with her houseguests in the solar. They would have four children, three boys and a girl, though most of the caretaking would be done by their maids. At parties, they’d coordinate their outfits, and they would never wear red. He would hate red.

“Ladies don’t go on adventures, Fisher,” he’d chide, whenever she voiced her fantasies of chasing pirates, emboldened by the light of dawn. She would nod along, a dull routine, and she would despise him.

The thought is a distant nightmare, tossed from her mind the moment Bez leans in. She straddles Fish’s hips, eyes flashing at the little gasp she gets in response. When she smiles, it’s wicked and sharp, and Fish shivers with want. She doesn't take well to Fish's mind wandering in their bed, not that there’s anything worthwhile to wander through.

Though they’re nearly the same height, Bez is suddenly a giant looming over her.

Her lips press against the soft skin of Fish’s throat, rough and insistent, commanding attention. The scrape of her teeth comes moments after, light at first, but the trail of kisses will bruise by morning, a plum purple reminder of who Fish belongs to. She’ll wear it well, like garland around her neck, her favorite accessory.

“Would you?” Bez asks, mouth moving down to the flat of Fish’s chest, grazing between her breasts. Fish can feel the rumble of Bez’s voice even lower, between her legs, and her thighs tighten, holding it there, only wishing she could pull it closer.

“Marry him? I suppose I would,” Fish says, breathy, and her words catch when Bez’s tongue skates out, leaving goosebumps close behind. “I think I’d grow terribly bored though. I’d have to find ways to pass the time, of course.”

Bez hums her agreement, glancing up just in time to catch Fish’s wink. There is something tangible hanging between their stare, an attraction that Fish thinks will hold her for the rest of her life.

She grabs onto Bez’s free hand, a tug at her wrist, and leads it down, where Fish wants her most. She wants to rush, she always wants to rush, but she keeps it in place, Bez’s fingers just at the edge of her nightie.

“I’d lay next to my husband, in our marriage bed, waiting for him to fall asleep. Do you know what I would think about?”

Bez’s eyes, dark and demanding, make her squirm. “I’m certain you’re going to tell me,” she says.

“I'd imagine the Lady of Misfortune, surely you've heard of her, claiming me with my husband beside us. I would slide my hand up,” Fish pauses, sucking in a shaky breath when Bez’s fingers creep higher. Always so eager to play along. “And I would pleasure myself with the thought of her hand, her fingers. She’d make me helpless. I’d be so good for her, wouldn't I?”

“You would,” Bez agrees, pressing kisses lower, lower, until she’s just below Fish’s navel. Fish bites her tongue, holding back a whine. “And I would find you, darling, no man alive can keep me from what’s mine.”

Fish almost pouts when Bez interrupts the fantasy, but the complaints die quickly in her throat the moment her head dips beneath Fish’s dress.

Her breath puffs hot between Fish’s legs, tongue wet and teasing. Fish swears she can feel the smirk there. Bez’s hand slides back down to Fish’s thigh, her grip tight enough to bruise, and Fish lets out a moan, fingers reaching down to grasp at Bez’s hair.

She throws her head back. Taken. 

* * *

Hours later, curled up on her side, Fish pretends to sleep. When the bed creaks underneath them, Bez slinking out from under the covers, she squeezes her eyes shut tighter, tells herself she doesn’t hear Bez leave. She knows where she’s going, knows what Wiz whispers about just on the other side of the door. 

She knows, she knows. 

She tells herself she doesn’t hear the screams.


	2. herdle 01

Noodle’s heart is in his throat when he clocks out for the day. He has an hour to kill until Herc’s shift ends, though he imagines that most of that time will be spent anxiously pacing in front of the restaurant until someone yells at him.

He had been excited for their date. Nervous, sure, but excited, too. That was before Rex intervened.

“Third date, huh? You know what that means,” she’d said, voice sing song and eyebrows waggling, “It’s time to seal the deal, Noodly Poo”

Noodle’s eyes must have gone has big as they felt, because Bez and Rex burst into fits of laughter, winking at him the rest of the night.

He knew they were joking… sort of. But there was an unspoken truth there that eventually he’d have to face. If Herc wanted  _that_  then sooner or later Noodle would have to do something about it.

Not that it was unpleasant to think about. Unfortunately, it was anything  _but_  unpleasant, and that was the source of Noodle’s all encompassing terror.

He just couldn’t decide if he simply wasn’t ready or, worse, if he was ready and knew he’d mess it up once the time came.

He likes Herc. He really, really likes him. What is he supposed to do with himself if he ruins this so soon? Suddenly a third date seems like a bad omen.

Noodle sucks in a deep breath, and starts his pacing.

* * *

 

By the time Herc is off, Noodle is nowhere close to a solution. In the past hour, he’s considered just bailing about a half a million times, but he couldn’t do that to him. Especially not when Herc spots him waiting, and breaks into a full faced grin.

Noodle is so, so not ready for... whatever they are to end. That doesn’t stop the panic.

“I’m, uh, I’m sick?” he blurts, the second Herc is close enough to hear him. Herc stops in his tracks, eyes appraising for just a moment before he shrugs.

“Oh, that’s okay, like you don’t look sick but we don’t really have to go to dinner. I mean, I don’t even actually like Indian food, I just said that because I thought you’d like it. Wait,” he bites his lip, shakes his head, before he continues, “Well, let’s just go back to your place, we can hang there. I’ve always wanted to see it, I even had a dream you took me there and I was, like, on my knees and you-,” there’s a pause, another shake of his head, “Actually, just forget I said that. We’ll go to your apartment, though, that’s fine, right? I can make soup.”

How is Noodle supposed to say no?

* * *

 

He survives the night, mostly, though he’s on edge the entire time. He tells himself he’s just being prepared, though he’s not sure what exactly he’s preparing for. The off chance Herc lunges across the couch at him, as if he’s that alluring, or something equally as anxiety inducing.

It’s unnecessary, of course. Herc lives in ignorant bliss. He doesn’t really seem concerned with the Third Date Curse. He “makes dinner”, which is a can of Campbell’s he threw in the microwave, and then settles next to Noodle on the couch, detailing the full plot of the movie they’re about to watch before they actually start it. It’s about one of the Avengers, but Noodle isn’t sure which one, because from the sounds of it they’re all there anyway. 

Herc alternates between attentive silence and short bursts of ranting. It goes on long enough that Noodle finally finds himself relaxing until he realizes that Herc has gone much too long with critiquing the movieverse canon.

He looks over, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, when Herc’s head thunks against his shoulder. Noodle’s tongue goes dry, anxiety renewed with full force. He’s relieved, at least, that Herc isn’t awake to hear his startled squeal.

That relief hardly lasts for a moment, however, when Herc’s arm reaches out and wraps around Noodle’s waist. He’s close, closer than Noodle has ever been with someone outside of his immediate family, and he has no idea what to do in this situation.

He knows what he  _wants_  to do, of course, especially when Herc’s breath tickles his neck, the barest brush of his lips against Noodle’s pulse. A million thoughts flicker through his mind, each one worse than the last, and he’s not brave enough for a single one. He holds his breath, trying to will them all away, though that only seems to make things worse. Like stubborn little flies, they pester him.

_Herc’s breath, hot and wet, moving lower, slower._

_Noodle’s fingers in Herc’s hair, just so he could hold him closer._

_Pulling back, gently, licking at his bottom lip. He relishes in the little gasp he gets in response._

Noodle thinks his head may explode when Herc shifts, ever so slightly, his thigh pressing up against Noodle’s own. The night somehow is going much worse than he’d originally thought. Noodle adjusts his pants, mortified, and silently prays for the end of the Third Date Curse.


	3. jeffstarr 01

Jeff has come to expect that whenever he sees Starr tipping back drinks on his Snap story, he will inevitably be bombarded with typo riddled pick-up lines before 3am. It doesn’t particularly matter what day of the week, and it’s rarely for a specific occasion, Starr just likes to have a good time, and he likes to include Jeff in that good time.

With texts. Lots and lots of drunk texts. Oftentimes a constant stream of buzzing, the man responsible not at all afraid of spamming him, even sober.

Without fail, no matter how comfy and warm he is, Jeff’s arm will snake out to his night stand, pull out his phone, and face his drunk, very horny friend.

(2:03am) **jeff....... J. ur hot as fuck FUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKKKKK fuck me**

(2:03am) **serioulsy?  ?? jeffffffffffffffffff**

(2:04am) **i SO wnat tto suck ur dick have i told u that lol 👅**

Jeff smiles, tries to hide the fact that he’s blushing. Alone. In his dark room. He’s sunk, and he knows it. 

(2:06am)  _ur drunk i see_

(2:06am)  _and yea, uve told me that once or twice_

Never sober though, Jeff doesn’t bring that up. Nor does he mention the fact that he wouldn’t really mind it. 

(2:08am)  **ohmYgod babbbbyyyyyyyy ! im so happy ur awake**

(2:08am)  **what have i told u 1nce or twicece?**

(2:09am)  **cum to tapsters?????? cum here and dnace dance w me ;)**

Jeff lets his phone fall to his chest, biting his lip to stop his grin. He takes a moment, letting out a huff, and just when he think he’s composed himself his phone starts buzzing again. This time, Starr’s face pops up on screen, dark and blurry in the club, but Jeff would recognize him anywhere. 

Jeff swipes to answer, letting Starr dance with him through Facetime, and laughing along with jokes he can’t hear. There’s something off about him tonight, like he’s trying hard to convince Jeff of something, though neither of them know what.

When Starr asks to come over, winking and wiggling his eyebrows, Jeff nods along. They both know it won’t go anywhere. Or, at least Jeff does. 

Starr stumbles in an hour later, his spare key jingling in his hand, and flops into bed with Jeff. Within minutes, Jeff is trapped under Starr’s leg, falling asleep to snores in his ear. 

He tells himself this is good enough. 

 

* * *

 

 

Starr waking up in Jeff’s bed has become something of a routine. Probably too much of a routine, as of late, but he’s not really in the mood for introspection. 

His morning comes together in much the same way it always does after a night of heavy drinking. First with a headache, then with slight panic (they didn’t do anything did they?), and finally, with pancakes. Always blueberry pancakes, fluffy and fresh, served up on what Jeff has deemed “Starr’s Plate”. 

He’s not sure how Jeff always times breakfast in bed perfectly with Starr first waking up, but he does. It’s one of those magical Jeff powers that none of them can really explain, like how sometimes he smiles in such a way that you completely forget you have problems for a solid minute. 

Jeff avoids the topic of Starr’s scandalous texts, carefully navigating around them as they recount the night’s events. Starr has none of the same reservations, a wicked grin on his face as he counts the number of times he brought Jeff’s dick up in one hour. 

When Jeff blushes, it crawls from the tip of his ears down to his chest, something Starr would be an idiot not to exploit. He looks hot like that, and Starr only wishes he could follow the path with his tongue. He knew exactly the way Jeff’s breath would hitch as he moved lower.

He shifts a little, pulling the blankets to cover his lap. It’s all fun and games until your best friend notices your hard on. 

Not that he has to be particularly sneaky about it. Jeff is ignorant to all things regarding how ridiculously attractive he is. It’s been both Starr’s blessing and his curse.

Like now, fully prepared to comment on just how fuckable Jeff is when you’re hungover first thing in the morning (well, 11am. He’s being generous), but all he can think about is the dopey, embarrassed laugh that will inevitably follow, and the guilt washes over him in waves. 

Because, here’s the thing, he  _knows_ Jeff wants to sleep with him. You’d have to be an idiot not to realize. And even though, yeah, he totally wants to sleep with him too, and Starr isn’t really a stranger to people wanting to jump his bones, it’s not really the same thing.

Because Jeff wants the full package. He wants the early mornings and the late nights and everything in between. Sometimes Jeff looks at Starr like he’s never seen anything more beautiful, and Starr has to look away or else he'll start to get used to it. He’s not the kind of person that could keep that expression on Jeff’s face for very long.

And he’s just not enough of a scumbag to take the plunge. Their first time in the sack had been an accident. Really fucking great, but still an accident, and it’d be an even bigger one to do it again. 

Even if he  _wanted_ all of the goodies that would come along with the monogamy, it didn’t change things. If anything, it only made the whole thing a scarier prospect. 

Jeff didn’t know how he could be. How he  _was_. Starr lived off his body and very little else. Eventually he’d have to stop pretending to go along with their domestic bliss, face up to who he was, and that would just hurt all the more, because he  _couldn’t_. People like Starr didn’t get those things. Not with Jeff. 

But it’s all hypothetical. Because Starr doesn’t want it all to begin with. If he did then, well, what would stop him from kissing Jeff now, kissing him every morning for as long as he could?  What would stop him from reaching across the bed, letting his hand fall between Jeff’s legs? 

He could have it, whatever he wanted, at least for a short time. But he couldn’t have it no strings attached, not without his conscience screaming at him for it. So now, he was subjected to daydreams, far away little fantasies that had been pestering him more and more often. Images of them in bed together, kissing and fucking and laughing, sometimes just holding each other, and Starr always looked so happy like that.

 _Until he leaves_ , he reminds himself, and stops talking about Jeff’s dick. 

 

* * *

 

 

Jeff’s date is handsome, in the edgy sort of way that he once considered out of his league. If he’s being honest, he still might say so, but he’s trying not to dwell on it too much. Bug is the first man Jeff’s gone out with in, well, a while, and he really, really doesn’t want to blow it with wildly out of control anxieties. 

Easier said than done, he finds, when his phone won’t stop buzzing in his bag. Jeff winces every time Bug opens his mouth, only to stop, eyebrow poised, when he’s interrupted by the string of texts that Jeff wants to check  _so badly_. But he knows who it is, of course he does, and he’s trying to  _move on_  for fuck’s sake. It’s a test of his willpower, one he’s fairly convinced he’s going to fail. 

Because Bug is hot, and smart, and Jeff’s pretty sure that if he asked him, Bug would pick up the tab right now and go back to his place without a second thought. And being wanted like that feels  _good._  

But he’s not Starr, the exact opposite in fact, and Jeff’s traitorous brain can’t stop  _pointing that out_. 

Bug is quiet, listening to what Jeff says more than offering up stories of his own. He smiles rarely, but when he does it’s small and wicked and it makes something hot twist in Jeff’s belly. They want each other, but for every good thing Jeff picks out, Starr’s face flashes through his mind, an unwelcome reminder of why he’s throwing himself into dates in the first place. 

So when Bug excuses himself to make a quick phone call (”Sister drama,” he explains, although Jeff is fairly positive he’s just giving them both a brief out), his hand darts into his bag without hesitation. 32 texts and 14 missed calls, all from Starr.

They start out seemingly sober, or at least a little buzzed, and Jeff lets out a sigh of relief. This he can handle. 

(9:12pm)  **meet at tapsters???  
**

(9:20pm)  **cmon pls dont make me thirdwheel zev and rex of all ppl theyre so gross  
**

(9:31pm)  **wtf bro rex says u have a date?? u didnt tell me :(((**

(9:36pm)  **dont forget the condoms stay safe fam ;))**

Things only go downhill from there, presumably due to Starr’s poor self control (which has gotten increasingly worse the last few months) and the simple fact that Zev and Rex love nothing more than to encourage bad behavior. 

(10:02pm)  **srry rxe said not to txt u buut ur so hot lol  
**

(10:02pm)  **i wna succckk ur dick can we fck again????? ill ask rex**

(10:06pm)  **jeffffff babby i think rex is mad at me :(**

Even this, despite lodging something sharp in Jeff’s chest, he can deal with. Starr drunk, needy and horny is something that Jeff has some degree of control over. It’s what comes after that concerns him most.

(10:32pm)  **r u goign to fuck him/???  
**

(10:32pm)  **r ex said**

(10:32pm)  **rrex said he works at naSA i cnat stop think about it  
**

 ****(10:34pm) ****wihs i worked at nsa? i wish i didd. i thnik hes rich probbably  
****

(10:35pm)  **im sory**

(10:35pm)  **i haate him im srry**

(10:36pm)  **if i wsa rich and workd at nasa i cld fuck u every day**

 ****(10:36pm) **evry day nd evrey night every morning plea se forever ill even get married  
**

(10:40pm)  **im srry  
**

(10:40pm)  **dont hate me**

(10:40pm)  **cna i come see u?  
**

(10:41pm)  **pls i need to see u  
**

Bug comes around the corner, pulling out his seat, and Jeff turns off his phone.  

 

* * *

 

 

Starr is hunched over Jeff’s toilet, all of the drinks from that night coming back with a vengeance, when the keys rattle at the front door. Jeff calls out for him, quietly at first, then a bit louder as he comes down the hall. 

He props himself against the wall, letting his head fall back with a  _thunk_ and trying his level best to will the nausea away. He’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Jeff’s head finally peeks in the doorway, a gentle smile on his face. 

Starr almost smiles back, almost tells Jeff to come to bed with him, despite his head being shoved halfway down the toilet. He almost does a lot of things, until another figure steps into the hall and suddenly he’s queasy all over again, reaching for the toilet bowl in desperation. 

Jeff wets a washcloth and presses it so very gently to the back of Starr’s neck, all while desperate apologies spill out of his mouth. Apologies for the man hovering in the doorway.

Jeff murmurs something in Starr’s ear, soft and sweet as ever, before leading his date down the hall again. Starr leans his head against the toilet seat, listening to the snippets of conversation that he can, although they only serve to make him sicker.

Mostly apologies on Jeff’s side of things, offering to see him again next week, assuring what a good time he had. 

“I get it, everybody has a crazy ex,” the guy says, and Starr hates him, hates being talked about like he’s nothing to Jeff  _now.  
_

He’s not ex anything. Jeff wants him, likes him, probably even loves him. He’s not ready for that to change. He hasn’t done anything to ruin that. 

 _Until tonight_ the little voice in his head reminds him.

 

\---

 

He wakes up groggy, alone in Jeff’s bed that Jeff clearly hadn’t joined him in, without the familiar clanging the always accompanied breakfast. In fact, the house is eerily silent. It’s almost enough for Starr to convince himself that last night never happened.

Unfortunately, his phone is glaring proof otherwise, a testament to his massive fuck up. Starr doesn’t even need it, remembering all too clearly the exact moment things had gone to shit.

He’d been in the Tapster’s bathroom, head back against the grimy stall while a handsome little piece slid down his legs. The stranger’s mouth was hot, eager, he knew exactly what he wanted. Starr couldn’t help himself. His thoughts turned to Jeff, there instead, on his knees with that mischievous twinkle in his eye that Starr rarely got to see. He’d reach down, fingers in Jeff’s hair and, well...

There’s just nothing sexy about moaning the wrong name with a tongue wrapped around your dick.

Somehow things managed to go downhill from there. 

 

\---

 

When Starr finally emerges from the bedroom, Jeff is passed out on the couch. His dress is tangled around his thighs, makeup smudged across his face, and he looks so fucking  _beautiful_ , Starr’s breath hitches at the sight. 

It’s childish, the lump that forms in his throat, but he can’t help feeling that something is being taken away from him. He could have had this, all of it, all he had to do was ask. Where could they possibly stand now?

The urge to run kicks in. He could sneak out easily enough, avoid it all until he got lucky and Jeff forgave him. Again. 

His gut twists at the thought. Instead of the millions of escape plans flashing through his head, Starr settles cross legged on the floor, rolling himself a joint on Jeff’s coffee table. He tells himself he’s not watching Jeff sleep, like a creep, just keeping an eye out for when he wakes up.

As it turns out, Starr doesn’t have to wait long. He’s only two puffs in when Jeff starts to shift, and Starr’s coughing up a cloud of smoke as Jeff gives him a sleepy smile. 

For a moment, time stops, Starr’s heart along with it. In a perfect world things would stick like this, the sliver of time before memories of last night hit Jeff like a jackhammer. 

They stare at one another, neither of them saying anything for a long while.

“I fucked up,” Starr blurts, just as Jeff is stammering out his own apology, always the bigger person. 

“I’m sorry, Starr, I’m so sorry. I knew you were acting strange lately and I shouldn’t have just ignored you and I never wanted to pressure you into anything but-” Jeff lets out a long shaky breath, his head falling into his hands, and his next words come out muffled, “Did you mean it, your text, did you mean it?” 

Starr freezes, a million scenarios running through his head as he tries to filter through the dozens of texts for the one that could wreck Jeff this way. He’s silent long enough for Jeff to lift his head.

He must catch Starr’s blank stare, because he continues, voice raw, “You told me you wanted to be with me.” he says, eyes never leaving Starr’s, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to say that.”

And it’s all so stupid. So, so stupid, because Starr thinks maybe he’s wanted this just as much. He could have Jeff all to himself, if he wanted. Jeff’s kisses, his small, secret smiles, he could have all of it, he wouldn’t have to share with anyone. Especially not green-haired douche bags working for NASA. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Starr says, and Jeff’s face drops with the rejection. He jumps to his feet, knees knocking the table in his rush, but once he’s up, he loses his words.

There’s so much he hasn’t said. Or, rather, that he should have said sober. A long time ago. He doesn’t even know where to start at this point, all of it too tangled up in the mess he made, so he starts simple.

“I do want you,” he says, reaching out for Jeff’s wrist, “I think you’re so stupidly attractive. Beautiful, stupidly beautiful,” he adds, pulling closer.

At this point, Jeff is beaming, tears in his eyes that make Starr’s chest flutter. When he finally,  _finally_ gets to kiss him, Starr can’t help but think that he’s too fucking lucky. 


	4. macbeth 01

he was missing something, couldn’t say for certain what it was. all he knew for sure was that some days he  _soared_ , lived life in orange, everything fastfastfast. other days were deeper, sunk so low he never understood how he crawled out, even when he desperately clawed and clamored to the surface. 

broken, missing something in his brain, never worked quite right, but she still smiled at him like he was  _whole_. 

when he told her about the ocean, told her that’s where god left his missing piece, she didn’t mock. didn’t treat him like a child. “we should get it back,” she agreed.

and she didn’t push away, when he wept.

* * *

 

she's good with medicine, he can work a gun.

they make it to the four states. closer to becoming himself than he ever thought he could be. 

he doesn’t know if it’s selfish, when he leaves her there. it feels like it, hard and sick and heavy. but she kisses him like she understands. she knows, better than anyone, that he’s eating himself alive. he can’t wait, can’t love her properly when his life’s out of reach.

he does. he loves her. he leaves her. asks her to wait for him, even though he shouldn’t, asks her to name their daughter rosie.

he doesn’t deserve it, when she promises. maybe he does.

* * *

 

the ocean looks like her. looks like purpose. a reason to live.

it makes his hands shake, his chest hurt, the tears that roll down his cheeks feel like acid on his skin. 

the ocean looks like their child. her child. (their child). and he fears it.

he loves it.

the ocean is beautiful and terrifying and it’s not his missing piece.

his world doesn’t spin on its axis, doesn’t slide into place at the sight of crashing waves. but he’s made it to the middle. for the first time he has found what’s in between the orange and the deep. he’s ready to learn to be whole.

he’s ready to go home.


End file.
